


You Don't Know About Me

by Scorpiokagamine



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Drama, Humor (although i'm bad at it), M/M, Magic, Multi-chapter AU, Slice of Life, Yaoi, immortal au, mentioned past drama/tragedy, somewhat historical
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-31
Updated: 2014-08-03
Packaged: 2018-02-11 06:31:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2057508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scorpiokagamine/pseuds/Scorpiokagamine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Time is always moving.<br/>Funny, how I can't even begin to understand that, no matter how many years I've spent on this earth. I keep forgetting.<br/>Time is always moving.<br/>Each day, each hour, each minute- each second brings forth something new into the world, and you can never turn that second back, because it's already changed. Time has changed.<br/>Tick tock.<br/>I can never go back to that time.<br/>Tick tock.<br/>In this cruel world, humans don't have time for regrets.<br/>Tick tock.<br/>But I do.</p><p> </p><p>Immortals! AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. May-June

**Author's Note:**

> welcome to my story! just so you know, if you've read my other work Giving is Destroying, I'll get back to it, I promise! I just had an urge to write this after reading this series (I think its called immortal love or something) I found in the library! I was originally thinking of doing this as aone shot, but its just too good of an opportunity to pass up!
> 
> MAY I ALSO ADD THAT THIS ENTIRE WORK IS UNBETA'D, JUST LIKE MY OTHER ONE. SPRRY IF THERE ARE ANY GRAMMER MISTAKES

Time is always moving.

Funny, how I can't even begin to understand that, no matter how many years I've spent on this earth. I keep forgetting.

Time is always moving.

Each day, each hour, each minute- each second brings forth something new into the world, and you can never turn that second back, because it's already changed. Time has changed.

Tick tock.

As humans, they believe they're masters of time, because they believe they are the masters of everything. And who's to say otherwise? They have control of the seas, the air, the water. In 2,000 and some years, they've gain control of every aspect of nature in some way, shape or form.

Tick tock.

I am not human. My kind is not human, thought we look and talk and move as such. Maybe I choose the wrong words. Maybe we are humans, or just some sort of cousin to the human breed.

Tick tock.

Unlike humans, our skin doesn't cut so easily. Our bones don't wither as fast. Our strength doesn't recede as quickly, and our youth remains the same. I once met someone of our kind who was 50 but looked like an 18 year old and had the strength of a 20 year old muscle man.

Tick tock.

I can never go back to that time.

Tick tock.

In this cruel world, human don't have time for regrets.

Tick tock.

But I do.

Tick tock.

You don't know how much I want to go back to that time. You don't know what I would give to go back to it.

Tick tock.

You don't know.

Tick tock.

You don't know me at all.

 

.

 

.

 

I first met Brian back in the 1800s, though I'm sure I probably ran into him centuries before. He had been a slave trader for the American south, selling off hundreds of Africans to those who had the coin. But he said he only took the job for the easy money and he only did it for 50 years. But I knew the truth. And yet, I still became his friend. I don't know why back then, and I'm pretty sure if asked me 50 years from now why I befriended him I'll give you the same answer.

And besides, it had only been for a short while, maybe 60 some years before we had to move on, look less suspicious. We can only fool you for so long.

 

.

 

.

 

The second time I met Brian he was fighting in the American civil war. This time, he was fighting for the North, though I think he was just doing that to prove he was a humane person. I had been one of the many under his orders. I question how he found me out even now, but somehow he did. I was raised to the rank of Captain in no time once I met him again, mostly because he'd take me on so many missions.

Around this time, I met his mate, Talia. She was going under the name of Teresa back then, but she was a sweet lass, always caring for those in the hospital. She had an even temperament and a sweet nature, which explains why so many fell for her, why so many brightened at the sight of her.

It was easy to see that Brian and Talia loved each other very much. Whenever they held hands it was as if they were in their own world, one where no human or person of our kind could intrude upon. I was happy to serve them. I viewed them as the parents I never knew.

Parents I had always wished for.

 

.

 

.

 

The first time I met Bellia was in 1750s Italy. She was the daughter of a rich noble and a prostitute, and as it turned out, both of her parents were immortals. She was 12 then, barely hitting her immortal puberty.

For people like us, we age normally, or rather, like a human, until we reach the age of 12. We stop ageing then, but sometimes we continue to grow. Bellia was not one of those immortals. Once she reached 12 everything stopped.

I pitied her mostly because she raised herself on the streets, without the guidance of her parents. It's our custom that when we have a child we are obligated to take care of it, teach it our ways. But in some cases, a mother thinks she had given birth to a half human, half immortal being, and doesn't want it.

But Bellia was full immortal, maybe even more so than I was. She was strong than me, braver because of it, quick- witted and sharp tongued. More often than not it was her getting us out of a tricky situation, her getting us out of harm's way with a few quick jabs of her tongue. Maybe because she grew up on the streets of Italy, maybe because she was smart, maybe because she had better grasp of understanding her immortal nature than I did.

Either way, I took her in under the pretense of being a long lost uncle to her mother. She saw straight through my lie the moment I uttered it. But she kept quiet in front of the social worker, adding on to my lie with pleading looks and yearning eyes casted over to me from time to time.

She was a good actor.

But the moment everyone left she turned on me and said, "Now, we both know I'm not related to you. You don't have my cute nose," she stated in quick Italian. "So why don't you tell me the truth instead of feeding me goats balls' like you did them." She jerked her thumb towards the door.

Needless to say, I taught her about us.

I told her about her kind, about her people. I was surprised to learn that she knew a little, especially how to perform magic. She only used it to perform pick-pocketing tricks, but I taught her everything I knew about immortal magic. You can't imagine my shock when I saw how much magic the girls' body held within her, how much energy was untapped by her. She was like an ocean, deep and boundless.

For 50 years I trained her, not only in magic, but in how to hide in plain sight, how to mask her immortality from another of our kind. I also taught her how to read and write, how to act proper, how to be respectful, how to profit, how to save money. I taught her everything, stopping only when I had nothing left to teach her.

And with that, we said our good byes and wishes of good luck.

 

.

 

.

 

I met Mikasa again 43 years after the American civil war. It was the beginnings of the First World War, and the entire eastern side seemed to be in panic. But not the Americans. They were still trying to settle segregation laws between its white and its black communities. It was a giant mess, a hot spot of racism and persecution.

I met her in that mess. It was her hair.

Her hair was beautiful and dark like the night, straight flowing like a river, just as I remembered it. Her face was always unsmiling at first- maybe because she and her adoptive parents had sailed over her on the promise of free, cheap land. Lot of Immortals sailed over to American for that reason. Mostly because you weren't so close to each other, and for that reason we don't have to lie and keep changing our names. It's tiring, having to keep remembering who you're pretending to be as and who you really were.

I thought she was my mate.

I thought she was meant for me, because it was just so _easy_ with her.

But once war struck out, and I was sent off to fight, I realized that we were just like minded people- immortals- who were tired of change. Tired of people leaving us behind, tired of having to part, tired of everything. We weren't mates.

She broke things off. From time to time, we meet up again and spend 15 years or so catching up. We couldn't help it; we were best friends.

 

.

 

.

 

I think it was in the 70s and the 80s when I started to become what I am today. The 70s was a wild time, what with the 2nd world war coming to an end, the Berlin wall put up then taken down, the cold war between the U.S and Russia- sorry, Soviet Union. The beginnings of the 80s seemed to promise no different, with the shooting of the Korean Air lines flight 007 by Soviet Union, the boycott of the Moscow summer Olympics and the response boycott of the summer Olympics in California.

Back then, I started to do what every kid who looked my age was doing; drugs, alcohol, and parties. College parties were the best, yes, but high school parties had a sort of badass attitude to it. _Yeah! Fuck the police, baby, let's party!_ That was the common attitude in high school parties.

Luckily, I had a thing going for me. Girls wanted to date- or fuck- the half Japanese, half German kid with a perfect English accent. Had a sort of ring to it, I guess. Like I was the bad boy who was up for a joyride in the back seat of a truck, or the bad boy who was misunderstood. Either way, girls fell at my feet back then with only a mere look from me. Guys seemed to accept me because of who I fucked or what kinds of drugs I took or how smart I was in class. Not that they cared much about the latter.

But that was the opening to my life as a partier- jumping from party to party, from life to life, from place to place, never settling down for long, never sleeping with the same woman more than once. Eventually, just as the 90s rolled in, so did men into my bed, or my truck, or in a barn, because who the fuck cared? Not those of us rolling in the hay or in the bed, tangled limbs and hard lips pressing together in a messy kiss.

Not those of us who had too much time on their hands.

 

.

 

.

 

"Hey, Erik!" I turn at the sound of my pseudo name, my eyes taking in my friend Arianna as she stumbles through the crowd, obviously very high and very drunk. Bodies around her are preoccupied with dry humping and thrusting into each other in a sort of dance that borderlines on the dance part and were more on the sexual aspect.

I pull my scarf tighter around my neck, nervous about it falling off and revealing my scars. At the same time, my friend falls on me, her ample breasts pushing into my abdomen.

"Erik," Arianna pants, her eyes glazed over as she looks up at me. "Erik, you're really sexy, you know?" she takes in my dyed red hair, tied up in a short pony tail, and my green eyes covered in blue contacts. I raise my dark eyebrows at her. "Arianna," I say, trying to pry her hands off of me. But she's really strong when she's high, or maybe I don't have any real fight in me.

"Erik…"she whines, tugging my head down and whispering into my ear. "Let's have a three way…"

I sigh, relenting. She drags me along by the arm, searching the crowd for a willing partner.

 

.

 

.

 

It's not the first time she's asked me to do this. And I'm pretty sure it won't be the last. Hell, when we first met it was the first thing she said to me. "Ezra, let's have a three way," she said, not even drunk or high. It was barely into the 90s and she was already saying that.

Of course, the first thing I said back was "When?'

Now, though, at least 20 years later, she doesn't say it so often. Only if she gets high and drunk does she ask for it, and by then I'm either too tired or too preoccupied with my own partner for the night. She asks for it on rare occasions; I say yes on even rarer ones.

That's mostly because I don't like the feeling of getting up in the morning and not knowing the person I'm sharing a bed with. Not knowing whose house I'm in, whose bed I defiled. Most times I usually get up during the night, leave if I don't recognize the room I was in, and go home. It happens so often that I do it on autopilot. Drunk, high, or otherwise, I can always somehow drive myself home, prepare the weapons I'll need in the morning to fight my head from cracking open, and fall asleep.

I've done this for 30 some years, maybe more.

And every day I wake up the same. Down some pills, take a shower, brush my teeth, eat. Every day I wake up with that same lost feeling, not knowing why I was meant to exist, why I was put on this world. Then I start to wonder about the little things; who hosting the next party, which club to go to next, when the mortgage was due and hey, is that throw up on my shirt? Boy, I need to do my laundry.

And sometimes, when I'm doing my laundry at the nearest Laundromat, sticking my clothes haphazardly into the washing machine and pay, take my ipod or my phone out and stick my ear buds in, lean against an open dryer and watch my clothes spin, I think about my mother. How would she react to me, parties by night, normal 20 year old by day? Would she be proud? Happy? Disappointed?

No. She'd probably yell at me for not doing my laundry sooner, and shout at me for not dying with the rest of them.

 

.

 

.

 

This morning was no different; although now I had Arianna and another girl in my bed. I grimace over the mess we made on the bed before carefully removing myself. Arianna moans a little before reaching out with her hands and finding the other girl. She cuddles her face between the girls' larger breasts, sighing contently before returning to the land of sleep. Her dark brown locks splay out on my bed like a blood splatter, something I've seen way too often.

I flinch.

This time, because Arianna had gotten wasted before I could get a drink, I don't need my pills promising immediate relief from hangovers. But that also means I can remember everything clearly from last night, every moan and cry of pleasure uttered between us three. I grimace again, and head towards my bathroom.

I live in Maisonette apartment in New York, given to me by my adoptive parents who died a few years back. I liked them a lot- and now I feel as though I'm tarnishing their memory. I' pretty sure they didn't give me this apartment so I can return to it drunk or high or wasted or all three. Maybe they did give it to me with the hopes I'd bring a girl home, but one to stay and have children with, not to have a one night stand.

As I wash away the evidence of last night, I start to wish desperately that this wasn't my daily life. I wish I could've been the boy my recent parents would've been proud of. The man Bellia once told me I could be. The friend and son Brian and Talia would've wanted.

Instead, here I am, two girls in my bed, basically a mansion to my name, countless money in my bank accounts, and hot spray scalding over my skin, the droplets accumulating and sticking like my sins to it.

 

.

 

.

 

I stayed in the shower for a while. I know from a thousand years of experience that water and heat won't help me. But the heat was so nice, a break away from my cold daily life, that I stayed standing in the shower for a long time. Long enough that I forgot about time again.

By the time I had gotten out, it was 12:00 in the afternoon. Damn. I reach to grab my towel that I always throw onto the bathroom counter, knocking several bottles of shaving cream and dye and pills to the floor. Hissing, I reach down and grab a them, placing them back on the counter at random. A scrap of paper falls off of one of the bottles that I pick up and I stare at it for a few seconds. Placing the bottles on the counter, I reach for the paper slowly, grabbing it and sitting down on the cold floor.

I turn it over to one side, reading the phone number written hastily on it. Not recognize it, I shrug, thinking it was probably from one of my old 80s lays. I'm about to throw it away when a memory pops up in my head.

_Brian, with his dark eyes staring into my contact covered ones, blinking widely in realization._

" _Eren…" his gruff voice sending tingles down my spine._

" _If you ever need help…" he takes out a paper and scribbles a phone number and address on it._

I blink my green eyes widely.

" _Come to this address…" he hands the number across the counter to me._

I look back to the counter, the other half of the paper floating under another bottle.

"… _and you'll have it."_

 

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.

 

"What the hell am I doing?" I mutter angrily to myself. My fingers are bone-white in their grip on the steering wheel, my arms stiff, and my body pressing hard into the seat. "Seriously, what the fuck?"

After I found the address, I quickly jumped into the shower and scrubbed myself, finding some clean clothes on the floor of my bedroom. I quickly grab my wallet and several pairs of socks and shoes, throwing them into a trash bag I grabbed from the kitchen. I then grabbed all of my underwear, two pairs of pants, shirts I liked, and anything I felt I needed. I wasn't coming back. Not for a long while, I thought.

At least my years of immortality helped me pack everything quickly and quietly. Finally amounts to something.

The very last thing I do is throw a blanket over Arianna and leave a note by the bed, saying I was leaving and not to follow me. I know she won't be able to. I never told her about how I felt inside, since she seemed so happy with what she was doing now. Maybe someday, if it actually works, I can come back to her and offer her what Brian offered me; help.

For now, though, I kiss her forehead fleetingly and close the door quietly behind me.

Now, here I was, two weeks on the road, closing in on the address, and parked in a little town on the outskirts of society. My fingers tap nervously on the wheel, my sighs and shuddering breaths filling the air. I roll down my passenger window to let in some air (not that having it closed will kill me, but someone might start to wonder. Plus, the fresh air feels nice.)

I tug on my scarf again, my other hand finally letting go of the steering wheel and turning the radio on. Thankfully, the last time I drove I wasn't in a partying mood, and some smooth jazz is playing. I think it was Ella Fitzgerald singing "Imagination," because the first words I hear are " _Imagination is funny…its makes a cloudy day sunny…"_

Arianna doesn't like the fact that I listen to jazz music. She liked to say that I was an old man in an 15 year olds body. I gave her a look and said "Bitch I might be."

Personally, though, I don't see anything wrong with jazz; its soothing, talking about love and hardships, tragedies and wishes in a siren-like sound. Singers sounded amazing when the beat wasn't hiding their voice. Orchestras sounded wonderful to my ears. Back in the 1700s I worked as an assistant to a theatre, watching operas and Greek tragedies all the time. Later, I listen to music during the World Wars, played in a marching band when I was in high school in the 70s. Jazz music was the one that stood out for me, as well as swing music.

" _Makes a bee think of honey…Just as I…think of you…_

_Imagination…is crazy…you're whole perspective gets hazy…_

_Starts you asking a daisy…what to do…."_

I hum along to the song, trying to work up my nerves. At the same time, I watch the people walk by me and into the general store I was parked in front of. _"what to do…?"_

" _have you ever felt a gentle-_ " I jump when someone slams their car door beside my passenger side, huffing as they cackle their way into the store with their friend. I stare after them, my eyes wide. _That's a good sign as any to stop wasting time._ I think. I roll up my window and leave, driving out onto the road again.

Not noticing dark eyes watching me leave with a cold expression.

 

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.

 

It's official. I'm bad with directions.

I get lost a few dozen times on my way there, trying to convince my mind that it wasn't a sign. I work up my nerve again and ask for directions from a guy behind the register in a drug store. It only ends up confusing me more and I give up, just continuing to drive down the street I was on.

The scenery was nice. Wide open plains of Montana, blue skies with traces of clouds here and there. The trees seem to reach up and touch the sky with their tips, their leaves fluttering the breeze. Half focused on the road, I allow myself to stare.

It kind of reminds me of home- and I mean home, home. My home that wasn't a picture in a photograph, wasn't some painting Picasso or some shit painted. Home was the long house by the sea, by the cliffs, by the mountains. Home was the piece of nature, piece of earth, piece of sky. Home was my mother standing over a pot and making supper, my brothers and sisters playing outside in the sea breeze. Home was riding out on a horse beside my father, across wide plains like these ones, answering the call of the village chief.

Home was-

If I hadn't jumped out of my thoughts just then, I might've run into him.

Him, with his cold dark glare, his grey long sleeve V-neck, his dark blue pants that hugged his legs in all the right places.

I slam my foot on the break and turn my stirring wheel quickly, so my path doesn't cross his, and instead, head straight into a tree.

 

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.

 

"What do you mean, there's no Auto repairman!?" I cry.

The shorter man with cold dark eyes blinks up at me. "Exactly as I said. We don't have one in our town."

"Are you crazy?!" what kind of town doesn't have an Auto repair or a shop to take your car to?

"No. Well,…" the man tilts his head slightly as he thinks. "We did have one, but only one. Ah, but he went away to study at the university for a few months…" I can just see this man's thinking process clearly. "No, it's…Its fine. I'll manage." I say. I run my fingers through my hair, sighing irritably.

How the hell am I going to make it to Brain's now? Walking? I'm not even sure where I am. Not that I have anything against walking, its just-

"You know Brian?" I jump, realizing too late that I was thinking aloud. "a-ah, yeah. I know _a_ Brian, and apparently he lives around here, so-"

The man's cold stare seems to stare through mine. "Around here, there's only one Brian." He interrupts. "So I think it's in your best interest to come with me." He reaches over and grabs my wrist. "Wha-" my sentence is cut off by his harsh tug, dragging me after him. His hold is only slightly bruising by human standard. If I wanted to, I could probably pull my arm out. But since I've spent at least 30 or so years partying instead of getting fit or putting on some muscle, I doubt I can even jerk my hand slightly away, much less put up a fight.

He drags me through the woods, over thick bushes and grass towards a horse tethered to a tree. Finally letting go of his hold on me, he climbs up. I stare at my wrist, rubbing it gently with two fingers as I examine what damage he could've have done.

"Come on," I hear him say, before his hand grabs my wrist again and pull me up. "wait-"I try to protest, but he already has me lying across his lap and cantering away. I'm forced to either slip right off or hold on. My arms seem to make my decision for me, since before I know it my hands are clinging to his arms, my fingers feeling his large muscles tighten and release as we ride.

 

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.

 

Back when I was a kid, long before I hit puberty, there was this dog my father owned. He'd growl at everyone who approached him, baring his teeth at a curious tot, and bark at any other dog. He seemed threatening to my parents, so they kept repeating to me, over and over, don't go near it. But whenever I'd approached, he'd whine at me, crawling on his stomach towards me and lick my feet through the fence. He was really sweet to me.

So one day, I raced over to the fence, climbed over it, and stood in front of him.

My father screamed at me, yelling for help. He was convinced the dog would eat me.

But he didn't.

Instead, that dog, rising to its full height, its shoulders at my eyes level, looked me straight in the eyes with its cold yellow stare. Hesitant now, I reach out a hand for it to sniff.

He sniffed at it twice before snorting and sneezing, then licked it, and my face. I giggled. My hand rested on its forehead. "You're not scary at all," I said. The dog barked softly, before following me outside the fence. It's rough fur brushed against my shoulders gently.

 

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.

 

Halfway through the ride, my capturer pulls me up so my ass isn't hanging off the horse, and instead, is on his lap. My legs are still dangling off of one side of the horse, but it doesn't seem to mind. My back now rests against his arm that curves around me to hold the reins. My hands are relinquished from their duty of keeping me steady.

I stare up at the man who kidnapped me, feeling as though I can remember his face from somewhere. But before I can put my finger on it, he pulls his horse to a stop, sliding off the horse and taking me with him. He holds me bridal style for a brief moment before setting me on my feet, turning his attention to his horse.

The moment I step onto the ground, I feel tingles run up my spine. I shake it off, thinking it's just my jitters getting to me.

I observe the farm house he brought me to. It was beautiful; a two story house with a patio that curved over to its right wing, the add-on made of stone. The house itself was wooden, painted white, with 4 windows in the front, 6 windows on its right wing, and many countless windows in its left wing add-on.

Past the house was a wooden barn with wings added to each of its side. I follow after the man who brought me here because hey, he knows where he's going, so why not? But he turns around the moment I make a step to follow and shakes his head. "Go inside the farm house." He points to it, and when I turn my head to look at it he gives me a push on the back.

_Fuck it_ , I think, heading towards the house. A pit-bull, with a sleek dark grey coat and whit underbelly and white socks, runs up to me, barking. I give it a look, and it shuts up mid-bark, ear perking up and bluish eyes going wide. It licks my shoes and my fingers in greeting before following me up the steps, sitting obediently when I ring the bell.

I look at its tags as the dog opens, reading one a part of its name before I look up.

"Be-"

 

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I've been to war several times.

War is not the sound of guns firing. It is not the sound of bombs and explosions. No, no. That's what a massacre is. War is the sound of men shouting in the night or in the day, the sound of flesh burning in the sun or being sliced under a cold pale white moon. It is the sound of swords clashing, blades humming, the thud of dead bodies falling to the floor, the _crash_ of glass or wood, the cackle of fire as it burns everything in its path. War is the sound of death.

And right now, war is the sound of a door opening. War is the sound of boots sinking into creaking wood floors, the turn of a golden handle, the protesting creaks and sighs of the door. It is the sound of someone gasping, the sound of the screen door screeching open.

It is the sound of my name being spoken by a face I'd thought I'd never see again.

"Eren!" Brian exclaims. He wraps his arms around me, his head only coming up to my chest. His hair tickles my chin in a familiar way, and my eyes start to water. "Brian…" I whisper.

"Hey Eren!" he steps back, smile fading from his face as he takes in my face. "What's wrong?"

It's been centuries since I've felt this way. Decades since I've felt alive. Is this what it means to exist? What it means to live day by day, not night by night? Is this what it means to wait not for the next party and get wasted, and in the morning regret everything, but instead, for the next family gathering, the next time you can see beloved family members and friends?

Tears well up in my eyes and I have to swallow around a lump. "H-hey, Brainy…" I hate how my voice comes out shaky, but Brian smiles all the same, especially when I let slip his old nickname. "Talia," he calls, his eyes remaining on my face. I snivel a little bit.

"What is it?" she says, coming into view through the door way, wiping her hands with her kitchen towel. "Who's this?" she says, dark eyes taking in my red hair, blue contacts, dark rimmed-black glasses and deep red scarf around my kneck. I, in turn, take in the apron she's wearing over a violet blue dress, her blonde curls tied up in a bun on her head. A few curls are loose, and she brushes them back in an attempt to look presentable.

"This, dear," he claps me on the shoulder, standing side-by-side with me as he introduces me to his mate. "Is Eren." He smiles at her.

She drops her towel to cover her dropped jaw with her hands.

 

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.

 

My mother once married me off to the daughter of the chief. She was a rebellious lass; always taunting me, always teasing me, seducing me in the bedroom. She was my little minx, and together we had a beautiful baby daughter named Jofrid. And it was the three of us; Einar(me), Halldis, and Jofrid. We lived in a long house together, close to the village and my family, but not too close. The sea, the mountains, the cliffs, and the plains seemed like our only companions, although we both knew the village was not too far of a ride away.

It was our blessing. And our curse.

We spent 5 years there. The first was just us, and the other 4 were with Jofrid. She was so sweet, a little rambunctious like her mother, but still. She had my eyes, Halldis used to say. And your nose, I'd say back.

"Are you sure?" she said, hand flying to touch her nose. "And not my lips?" she teased. I kissed her. "No one had lips like yours, love." I'd growled at her. She giggled, then darted from my grasp to take care of Jofrid. Leaving me wanting.

One day, when I was away fishing, bandits came and ransacked our village, killing any who tried to run and warn us. After 3 days, they ran into my home and absolutely destroyed it, killing my wife when she tried to fight back. When I returned, Jofrid was crying from in a barrel that Halldis had hidden her in. I covered her eyes from the sight of her violated mother's body and jumped on my horse, riding to my parent's long house.

I never went back to that house again, except once to take my beloved wife's body and cast it off to sea, to find the edge of the world. I shot a flaming arrow into the boat I cast her off in, setting her body aflame.

Jofrid lived to the age of 60, a surprise to everyone, since no one back then lived that long.

Well. No one who wasn't immortal.

 

.

 

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"Come, come in," Brian says, dragging me in with his arm. I stumble on the threshold, my eyes taking in the hallway lit by a small crystal chandler. Wide swooping stairs waited at the edge of the hall, and two archways awaited either side of me. The one on the left opened up into a large living room, and the other opened into the kitchen. A nudge on my leg makes me look down and realize the dog had followed me in.

"Oh, don't mind her, Eren. " Talia says, playing the perfect hostess.

"You know I love dogs, 'Lia." I say, smirking at her. She giggles. "Come," Brian beckons, motioning with an open palm to the couch. "There's someone I want you to meet." He sits down beside me, and Talia races back to the kitchen with "Oh! My chicken!" I stare after her, memories of long ago filling my mind.

"Eren." A new voice says. I jerk my head around to meet a crystal blue gaze. Pale white hands close shut a book with a loud _thud_. "I am Irwin Smith." The blonde man introduces, reaching out and smooth porcelain hand. Muscles, almost bigger than the man who kidnapped me today, ripple under a clean white button up shirt. I reach out my hand and am surprised to feel calluses instead of the smooth white skin I was expecting. Irwin smiles, knowing.

I blush.

"I'm sorry for my bluntness, Eren," he says in a cool tone. "But how did you get here?"

The pit-bull that followed me in comes to rest at my feet, waving its tail slightly when I shuffle my feet around. "A-ah…that is…" I mumble. "U-um…one of your…" Stable hands? Colleague? I didn't know who he was. "A man, wearing a grey long sleeve V-neck and riding one of your, I think, horses, brought me here when my car broke down."

"That would be Levi," Irwin says. "Although I can't see why he brought you here…"

I smile and point at Brian. "I was coming to see him."

"Brian? Do you know this person?' Irwin turns his cool gaze at Brian, and strangely I feel relieved.

"Yes," Brian says, clapping me on the shoulder. "I know him. We met back in, what was it, 1854?" he sends a questioning look my way and I nod shyly. " But I had no idea he was coming over today."

"Ah," Irwin says, leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs. "I see."

Based on how easily Brian gave out what time we met, I think it's safe to assume that this man was one of us. Immortals are not allowed to tell humans what we are. We did that once, and it led to the greatest, bloodiest, unspeakable war the world had ever seen. My father used to tell me stories about it on Samhain. I shiver now at the thought of it.

"How old are you, Eren?" Irwin asks, jarring me from my thoughts. Its seems that's been happening a lot today.

It's hard for an immortal to guess their age. Because of the different ways to gauge your age, because of the different cultures and traditions, it's hard to tell someone of a different race how old you are correctly. Now though, since you're as old as however many birthdays you've had, it's still tricky, but I can tell accurately.

"I'm about…250 years old. " I say, counting my fingers. It's a lie. But I don't want immortals like Irwin to start looking at me weird.

Brian bumps his shoulder within affectingly. "Finally passed the hundreds, I see," he says. Brian was three hundred or so years old, the last time I met him. And that was seventy some years ago, so he's nearing his four hundreds already.

"Love," Irwin says suddenly. I turn toward the direction he was looking, my eyes taking in the short blonde boy with azure blue eyes standing in a second archway, on the opposite end of the couch.. The boy steps forward, walking straight toward Irwin and kissing him on the cheek. "Who is this?" I'm startled, slightly, by the young voice of the boy.

"This Is Eren, a friend of Brian and Talia. I'm considering inviting him to stay for a while." Irwin introduces and explains. The boy yawns cutely, and Irwin's hand reaches up to his cheek. "I'm sorry I woke you up from your nap…"

Okay, seriously, what the fuck, they look like an old married couple. I hiss at them inwardly, fighting to keep a neutral expression on my face. Cut the couple crap already!

"Sorry about this," Brian whispers into my ear. "They get like this sometimes."

What strikes me even more is how Brian is reacting to two males kissing in front of him. "Are you…" I whisper to him, covering my mouth. "Alright…with…this?" I gesture towards Irwin and the boy.

Brain gives me a look. "You of all people should know that we immortals don't care. A mate is a mate, no matter the history or the sex." I lean back, shocked.

"Eren," I turn again to face Irwin, who's holding the boy in his lap. "I was just discussing with my mate if we should invite you to stay here." I blink, tilting my head to the side. "Although, I feel I must tell you what this is before I offer the invitation. Whether or not you accept it is up to you, then." I nod, and turn when I feel a presence beside me.

In the archway, the one I walked into through with Brian, the man apparently named Levi crosses his arms, leaning against the wooden arch. I stare at him for a second before turning back to face Irwin. "What this place is…is a rest stop, if you will. A sort of place for immortals to come and rest for as long as they want. If they need healing, we offer such, if they need time, we offer that as well. If they need a job, etc. we offer everything. Our only requests are that you attend our classes that we have, as well as respect our students."

Classes?

"We offer courses that focus on our magic, on the earth, and how those two combine." The boy says. "Basically, we're mentors, not therapists. We teach and take care of our students, allowing them to solve their own problems. What you share is what you share, and we pry no further. It's up to you to take the rests of the steps." He slides off of his mate's lap with a chaste kiss on Irwin's cheek. 'Please excuse me," he says then. "I'll need to be checking on Talia."

He walks away, passing Levi and heading into the kitchen.

"So, Eren," I blink as Irwin cross his legs, leans back into his chair and links his fingers in front of his mouth. "What do you say? Keep in mind that you are invited to join us, not obligated. You can rest here for a few nights to make up your mind, but know that you'll be treated as a regular student. To get the taste of what we offer, so to speak. Or you can leave, right after we get your car fixed."

Brian looks at me. "So what'll it be, Eren?" Irwin asks.

"I-"

 

.

 

.

 

I got married again, 60 years after Halldis died. This time, my wife died in child birth, the usual curse of mortals bearing immortal children. Halldis had been hardy; my second wife was not.

She was a petite girl, of French blood. She was married to me by her parents, and she loved me dearly, despite how little attention I paid her. She thought of me as some kind of broken record that had once played beautiful music and needed to be put back together again. I amused her, letting her think she was the only thing I needed. And that's how she got pregnant.

And that's why some higher being took her and my baby away.

After she died, I swore to myself that I would never marry again, or if I did, respect my next wife, treat her like a queen she was. I decided to go with the former; I cast aside my rich status, making it seem as though I died an early death, and instead became a servant to the royal family. For a few centuries that are how I lived, being the unnoticeable servant, the soldier, the slave. I suffered under many hands, bore many scars, and underwent some persons' sick minded game. I've seen the pure…

…and I've seen the ugly.

 

.

 

.

 

"I'll show you to your room," Irwin says, rising. I jump to my feet, my back straight as he walks past. I don't know what it is, but I feel as though I'm some sort of meager soldier in the presence of my commander. I've felt this feeling several times, during the world wars and some honorable mentioned battles, as well as the not so honorable mentioned.

As I follow Irwin up the stairs, my fingers brush the handrail. I'm awed by how smooth it feels, how it shines in the afternoon sun that flowed in from the windows. "Maple," I turn to look at Irwin, and I realized that we stopped. "The handrails' made of maple."

I look at the handrails again. That would explain the gold brown glow. And how smooth it was…

I look up to Irwin again, who raises his eyebrow in question, and I nod. He turns on his heel and climbs the stairs, me following close behind.

When we reach the second floor and move down the hall way, I'm surprised that he leads me to a second staircase. He opens a small door to reveal a simple room; a mattress on the floor with beautiful dark blue covers, a chair on the far end, pushed up against the wall, and a corner of the far end wall protruding out.

The ceiling was sloped, with 2 windows on each side to let in as much sun as you can. Air conditioning vents ran across the east wall, but it was the windows themselves that amazed me. I quickly walk towards one, pushing it gently. And the entire window moves, the top sticking out. "It's more efficient this way," Irwin explains. I listen to him halfheartedly. "The window itself moves in a circle. That's how it opens. You can lock it closed here," he taps a small simple latch at the center of the window pane.

"That's really cool," I say, mesmerized. Irwin smiles. "I'm glad you like it. This is gonna be your room, for as long as you stay."

"Even if I stay as a student?" I ask. This room was much too glamorous for the life of a 'student.'

"Even if, yes." Irwin assures me. I raise my eyebrows at him. 'I've got a feeling about you, Eren. I think you're the harbinger of many things to come."

"More like the Harbinger of many bad things to come," I mutter under my breath.

Irwin tilts his head at my words, his blue gaze calculating. "Do you really think that, Eren?"

"Yes," I reply simply. "What with all the bad that has happened in my life, what else am I supposed to think?" I open my palms at my side in a helpless gesture.

"If you think so," Irwin says. I turn around, thinking our conversation is done. "however," I stop in my tracks. "I believe that the things that have happened in your life- all the bad things, the tragedies- came to an end the moment you stepped foot in this house. No," I turn around, looking at him. "The moment you stepped on this lot, it came to an end." My eyes widen. "You felt it, didn't you?" he smiles, and then places a hand beside the window, looking out of it.

"This house, like you, has seen many things. It, too, has gone through some horrible, evil things. But, I think, with you here, Eren, it will change. Just like you." He looks at me again. "Now, are you ready to tell me how old you really are?" he says it with his commander-presence, as if he expects the honest answer, nothing more.

"Seven hundred and sixty four," My mouth answers him immediately, before I can cover it with my hands. And when I do, I've already realized it's too late. "Seven hundred and sixty four. That's how old I am."

Irwin raises his eyebrow a time. "You have seen many things, Eren." He sighs. "And now that you've shared that much, I can tell you this," he lowers his voice and leans in, "I'm 1,700 years old."

"WHA-?" I cry, shocked. "No way!"

He smiles. "I really am. I was born in 374 A.D."

"But-you- You look so young!"

He chuckles at how red my face is. "I know, right? A millennia of life, and I barely look a day over 40." He pats his chest. "I guess I'm just a testament to how long we live. Well," he turns around, waving to me briefly. "I'll be leaving you to unpack your things. Dinner will be ready soon, so I suggest you wash up. There's a bathroom on the far end of your room." And with that, he closes the door, leaving me alone to my thoughts.

 

.

 

.

 


	2. June

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eren wonders if he's made the right choice. Also, attack of the Hen from Hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and I must say, not my best chapter, in my opinion. little early, but hey, you guys asked for another chapter. I was surprised by how fast you guys commented and liked this story- so here's my thank you!

Further scavenging around my new room reveals my things placed beside the door, hidden from view when you first walk in. I stare at it in disbelief; who ever brought those up must’ve really quiet feet and _very_ strong arms. (Rules out Brian.)

(Sorry Brian)

I make a face at my stuff- just a small suitcase and a large trash bag. Was this really all I needed? Probably before the 21st century. But now? This was just pitiful. Only a trash bag filled with clothes and a suitcase of…probably more clothes, since I wasn’t really focusing on what I was throwing in there.

I sigh. Well, I’m not gonna accomplish anything by just stand here. I walk forward and grab the trash bag, removing articles of clothing. I asses what I have to wear and what I need to wash as I pull them out and put them away accordingly (I had found a small walk in closet on the far end of the room, opposite wall to the door).

The first thing I find are my few jackets, some of them souvenirs from the places I stopped by on the way here. Thinking about them reminded me of Halldis; she once made me this beautiful wrap of sheepskin. It was so soft and warm to wear, and efficient, too, because Halldis was smart and cut off the shoulder parts of it. She trimmed it so it wouldn’t get in my way while I was hunting or fishing, and every time I wore it I felt like I was wrapped by her love, however cheesy that sounded. Hey, I’m 764 years old; let me be a little cheesy now and then.

Anyways, because it was a material thing-and since time hates that-after a few decades of wear it deteriorated, leaving behind only a scarp of leather that didn’t do its memory justice. I knew later that even if I had taken better care of it-treasured it and kept it hidden instead of wearing it so much-the same thing would’ve happened; only I would’ve never gotten to wear it so often, never get to feel her love around me as much. So I don’t regret it.

After hanging my jackets neatly on a hook connect to the wall in the closet- much like my memories- I started putting away the rest of my clothes, with much less soul searching. Sorry.

My suitcase, on the other hand, was not so easy.

Once the trash bag was empty, I sat down crossed-legged on the floor, my hands griping my ankles as I stared at the suitcase. My fingers tapped and fidgeted a few times, but otherwise, I was still as I tried to remember what I had packed in there. I want to be prepared for whatever onslaught of memories that was sure to happen. But no matter how hard I try, I can’t remember.

As immortals we have impeccable memory; ask Irwin right now what he remembers about his early life and he can be able to tell you blow by blow what would occur on the daily bases. Ask me how the battle of Gallipoli went and I can give you every little detail, such as the exact time someone took a shit. Ask Brian the names of every slave he sold and he can remember every last one, both the African and the English one.

Knowing that, now you understand why I’m so frustrated at myself.

Sighing irritably, I lean forward and drag the suitcase towards me. I’m hesitant about opening it, but we aren’t getting an older (pun intended) like this. Again, it feels as though I’m going to war as the zipper screeches from one end of the bag to the other. I hesitate again for a few seconds before pulling it open, taking in one last gulp of air before I look down.

I was totally unprepared.

Oh, the horror.

There’s a fucking panty in my suitcase.

And I don’t even think its Arianna’s.

I toss the panty out of my way (totally ignoring the fact that they’re dirty because aw, shit that’s fucking gross and I’ll be needing to ask for some wipes to clean my stuff) and finally observe what‘s in the suitcase- just a few bottles of pills, in case I lost my nerve, some spare clothes, and memories.

Reaching in with a shaking hand, I grab a photo with its back to me and turn it over. I gasp as I stare at a picture from World War 1; me and a few army buddies marching together, holding countless bags on our shoulders. I had looked too young to fight back then, so I served as a sort of messenger boy for the troops. The photographer-I think his name was Mich or something-had captured me mid-laugh, my teeth revealed as I laugh. I remember the joke the other soldiers had told me and chuckle even now, mostly because back then I had thought it was so funny.

Usually, with pictures, I burn them. I used to have a lot more photos from my time in the world wars, but a few decades later I burned them, hoping that my guilt was dissipate like the embers of the photos.

They don’t.

 

.

 

.

 

I abandon my suitcase-memory-lane expedition in favor of washing the two weeks-worth of dirt off my body. I mean, I did take a shower every now and then, but damn, the dirt sticks to your body. I figure that Talia won’t appreciate someone showing up smelling like shit at her dinner table, and Irwin would probably kick me out if I don’t behave like a proper guest. I head towards the bathroom running fingers through my hair, crinkling my nose at the greasy feel.

The bathroom was small, and not as glamorous as the bedroom, but it had a shower with one of those waterfall showerheads and a simple toilet. The sink was average; just a basin that looked carved into the counter. The mirror was one of those cabinets where you pull the mirror out and there’s some shelves to put stuff on. I’d already put my soaps and shampoos and my scrub…bush? Brush? (What the hell do you call those?) in the shower already, and I had found a towel hanging on the towel rack for me to use.

I try to be quick about my shower, because I know dinner’s probably almost ready and I’m pretty sure Talia would come up or send someone up to fetch me cause she’s a nice gal like that.

Or they can leave me up here to starve. Because someone down there’s a dick.

Just a feeling.

 

.

 

.

 

“Hey, you said that you guys had other students here,” I begin, stuffing a few pieces of my salad into my mouth. “Where are they?”

Levi sends me a disapproving glance from across the table. Well, hey, fuck you, man, talking with food in my mouth should be seen as an _honor_ , not as rude, because I’m taking the _time_ to stop my daily glorification of food to _talk_ to you, which, huh, I can, I don’t know, _not_ do. I hiss at him inwardly.

Something sets me off about Levi. I’m not sure what it is, but I feel like we were enemies once, fighting on opposite sides of the war. And even if I’ve never met him before, he did _kind of_  kidnap me and take to this _godforsaken_ place with _absolutely_ no trace of technology beyond a _toaster_ and a _phone_. And not a phone, phone, but a 70s phone that connects to the wall by a cord. Haven't they never heard of an iPhone? But when I asked them Irwin came me this look of confusion.

Seriously. What the fuck.

The blonde boy, Armin, smiles at me from his spot beside Levi and Irwin, who sits at the head of the table. “Yes, we have other students, but right now it’s summer break.”

“You guys have summer break?” I say, surprised.

“Yes,” Armin pats his mouth with his napkin like a princess. “It’s more of we allow students to leave through the months of June through September, or they can stay and work here until the school year. Levi is one of those students.” Armin nods at the dark haired man beside him. “By the way, he’s the one who carried your stuff up there,” Brian whispers to me.

Really? I tilt my head slightly as I gaze at Levi, wondering how someone so small could carry all my stuff so quietly up the stairs. Well, I guess miracles do happen.

I look at Brian. “Are you and Talia students?”

 Brian smiles as he swallows a spoonful of mash potatoes. “My wife and I are only supervisors of the dorms.” Talia smiles gracefully beside him.

“Talia is the head of the girls’ dorm, as well as the cook over the summer. Brian is the supervisor of the boys’ dorm as well as the janitor.” Armin explains. “We leave the cleaning and care of the room to the students themselves.”

“Dorm?” This is all starting to sound like some sort of boarding school. And if I know one thing, boarding school and I have never been on good terms. I tug on my scarf nervously, catching the stare Levi gives me as I do it.

“We’re not a boarding school,” Irwin says, and damn if that doesn’t creep me out. How does he know what I’m thinking? “We call the rooms ‘dorms’ so it’s easier to explain the students. And during the school year, yes, we are a little more strict, but you’re allowed to leave at any time, within reason.” Irwin rests his arms on the edge of the table and links his fingers in front of his mouth again. His blue gaze bores into my head.

I nervously eat some more of my salad, thanking Talia when she hands me the platter of chicken.

“Hey, Eren~” Brian singsongs next to my ear.

“W-What?” I grimace at my stutter.

“Guess who’s on kitchen duty tonight?” he teases, handing me a towel. I look at the towel and back to Brian, confused. “Welcome to Lakewood.” He winks at me, rising with the others and leaving.

Oh, hell no.

 

.

 

.

 

It’s not like I don’t know how to clean. In fact, even way back when with my family, and even with my wife, I helped out with the women’s chores. When you’re far away from the village and society expectations, lines between ‘women’ and ‘men’ chores get blurred. I learned how to loom during the same time I was learning how to fish, how to fight a man with a sword and how to fight a dress with a needle. I was the one who taught my wife how to work the loom, since she grew up without a mother.

Not only then, but throughout the seven centuries that I have lived, most of my jobs required me to clean something daily. For twelve years I helped clean the Sistine chapel, craning my neck like Michael Angelo as I washed the ceiling. In France I polished the statue of David, as well as help construct the Eiffel tower. In New York, for a while, I oversaw the construction of Lady Liberty, returning fifty years later to help clean it.

So I know a thing or two about cleaning. Yippee, let’s celebrate with a glass of vodka.

Ha ha, no.

I think the correct way of say this is “I _used_ to know a thing or two about cleaning.” Apparently I forgot how to clean a kitchen in my thirty so years of partying, because the minute I stepped into there I didn’t understand a thing that was going on. Talia was a kind woman, and left the areas she cooked in clean. But the sink was stockpiling with dishes we didn’t even use from dinner, the counter was covered with stray grocery bags and other crap, and I think one counter by the back door was dedicated to the dog, because there was dog soap, leashes, collars, and bottles covering every inch of that one section.

Taking in the mess, I did the only thing I could remember.

 

.

 

.

 

“I’m the man, I’m the man, I’m the ma-an,” I sing, wiping my hands on the apron I had tied on. “Yes I am, yes I am, yes I a-am-”

“What the hell are you doing?” I jump at the gruff voice and turn around sharply to see Levi standing in the back doorway, eyebrows raised. My hand flies to my fast beating heart in an attempt to calm it. “What do you think I’m doing?” I snap, pointing my thumb at the sink.

“Whatever it is, it’s not cleaning,” Levi grumbles, closing the door behind him as he walks in. “It sounds more like your wailing.”  I throw at a towel at him. It hits him right in the face, something I’m sure he didn’t expect. My assumption is proved further when the towel falls off to reveal a surprised expression.

Fuck _ye-ah_. Bet ya didn’t see that coming.

“How rude,” I say. “Is that something you say to your elders?”

He places the towel on the freshly cleaned counter. “Sorry. Didn’t know you were a prissy girl.”

I hiss at him, but turn around to continue cleaning. “How old are you anyway?” I ask.

“Three hundred or so,” he says nonchantely.  “You do know we have a dishwasher, right?” he’s standing at my side now, observing how I was wiping the dish in my hands.

I nod. “I don’t believe in them. I like making sure everything’s clean.” Not really. But once you get me started I go in all the way.

“Hmm,” he hums in response. I look at him from the corner of my eye.  “You’re so short for your age…” I mumble. I was kind of expecting someone who was fifty years ahead of my fake age to be taller, especially if they were guy (not being feminist here).

“Sorry that we can’t all be giants like you.” He growls. Shit. Didn’t think I said that so loud.

But it was true. Back when I was younger people used to call me a giant, since I was so tall. The average height for a human was probably how tall Levi was to me. Hell, Halldis barely reached the height of my stomach, something she used in the bedroom-

Hello. I smack my cheek lightly. Stop thinking about having sex with your first wife, me.

Anyways, thanks to better nutrition, people began to grow taller, until now, where my height seems average. “Must suck nowadays,” I say. He growls and glares at me.

“I don’t know,” he coolly. “It’s much better than sucking dick, anyways.”

“I don’t know,” I tease. I hand him a wet dish and a towel, because, hey, if you’re just standing there watching me clean you might as well be useful. He takes it and begins to dry it carefully. “Have you ever tried?” I smirk. Ha ha. Whose got the last laugh now?

“A few times.” Him, obviously. And damn. Did not see _that_ one coming. “Maybe it’s not so bad, maybe it is. I don’t expect a brat like you to know.” He gives me this _look_ that I bristle at, because it’s so triumphant and gloating. Like he thinks he’s this great ruler and I’m some sort of servant below him.

“hey, I’ve sucked several dicks before!” Maybe later, when I’m not so hot-blooded, I’ll regret this entire conversation. “So don’t think you’re so high and mighty because you have!”

“No one said I thought I was, brat.” Levi snorts. He grabs the dish I hold in my hands and wipes it quickly.  Somehow, this feels vaguely familiar. “Now shut up and keep cleaning, or I might leave you alone to deal with this mess.” He gestures at the rest of the kitchen that I haven’t tackled yet.

I hiss, but return to cleaning.

 

.

 

.

 

I don’t realize why the atmosphere had felt so familiar when we were cleaning until I’m lying on my bed, my head pushed into the pillows, and my body totally exhausted. The reason why is because I’ve never cleaned something with someone for the last century. With my adoptive parents I was an only son, or I was the oldest or the youngest, and the responsibility of cleaning was solely on my shoulders. I had to clean by myself, which was something I quickly got used to.

Before,  when I was a servant in a rich house hold, or when I was living in Europe, or when I was with my family, we always did things together. It was required of us- being alone meant death. Alone meant dying in the cold, no one knowing your name or where you came from. Or it meant getting run over by a cart in the street, your family weeping over your body as you died slowly. Alone meant a lot of things. So whenever we did something, it was always either in pairs or in a group.

Nowadays, alone just meant not having so many people around you. Alone means you’re by yourself, something that feels so nice, since you can choose how fast or how slowly you want to be at the moment, since, hey, you know-it’s just you. But that’s not how I wanted it to be. I loved doing things with others, loved being beside another person.

Maybe that’s why I stuck with Arianna for so long. Because she meant I won’t be alone.

Rolling over, I cross my arms behind my head and stare at the moon outside the window. Sometimes, I think it’s pretty, seeing only the moon in the night sky. But most times its saddens me. I  loved to gaze at the stars. Back in the city I could only find maybe 3 or 4 on a clear night.

But outside my window, they seem to litter the sky with their light. There were so many...almost as many as when I was living in France. 1021 A.D. France wasn’t the best time to be a servant, but the night sky was beautiful. You could see the galaxies swirl in front of you, the constellations moving from one end of the sky to the other.

The Montana night sky doesn’t even come close to that, but I can’t really complain. At least I have more than 3 or 4 stars watching me sleep tonight.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

When I wake up in the morning, I’m fully expecting to be back in my Maisonette. The first thing I actually do is reach out my arm for my pills, thinking I have a hangover. My eyes are closed, too- that’s how confident I was.

You’d imagine my terror when instead of feeling a cold bottle of pills I feel warmth.

I jerk upright, my covers falling off my chest. I blink rapidly, my eyes getting used to the darkness. “What the hell?” I rub my eyes in disbelief, before remembering the events of yesterday. Or was it yesterday? “What day is it…?”

A weight jumps onto my bed. “Ah, you’re lucky. You’re beds’ soft.” I recognize the voice. “Brian…? What the hell?”

“Come on, dear,” Talia calls from the doorway. “It’s time to wake up.”

“What time is it?”

“Time to wake up,” Brian says rolling around on my covers.

I throw a pillow at him that he dodges.

“It’s 4:00 in the morning, dear,” Talia says, and what the hell, there is no way she just said that as easily as when you ask someone what day it is. Nope, nope. 4 in the morning is not the time when immortals wake up. Nope, nope. Going back to bed. This is just a bad dream.

“Good night, then,” I say, pulling the covers over my head.

“Aw, Eren, that’s not the proper morning attitude,” Brian pulls my covers down and I hiss at him. “Come on, up, up.” He pulls me up by the arm unwillingly and pushes me towards the bathroom. “Get dressed. You’ve got chores today.”

“At four in the morning?”  I whine. “What kind of chores do people do at four in the morning?”

“The fun kind,” Brian says, pushing me into the bathroom.

 

.

 

.

 

As it turns out, _no,_ the chores are not the “ _fun”_ kind.

Instead, I had to go to the chicken pen to grab the eggs for breakfast. “Here at Lakewood, we believe in the traditional farm.” Irwin explained to me. More like fed me bullshit. “As a student, chores are a part of your class.” And with that, he pushed me out the back door.

More like they enjoy making their ‘students’ slaving away at their leisure. I’m already starting to doubt if this is a school and not some recreational shit.

And _oh my god,_ the _hens._ I swear they’re fucking _chickens from hell._

When I was getting the eggs from their nests, most of the hens almost pecked my eyes out. Okay, that’s a stretch. Maybe there’s only one real chicken from hell in the coop. The moment I step in the hen on the farthest corner gives me a dirty look like, _hey, fuck you, I know what you’re coming for. You’re not getting my eggs_. And I was going to respect that, but Irwin said I had to collect two from every nest. “Survival of the fittest,” he claimed.

I learned quickly that he meant that for me as well.

Tugging my scarf around my neck, I began to collect the eggs, tucking them into my pockets. Most of the hens were pretty pliant- they put up a fight, yes, but they allowed me to grab the sacrifices. But that _one hen._

She nearly plucked my eyes out in my attempt to grab two eggs. One way or another, she was not giving me her eggs. It got so bad that I had to physically pick her up and toss her outside, closing the door in case she came flying in. I quickly grabbed the two eggs I needed and pocketed them before leaving, the Evil Hen of Hell flying back in just like I knew she would and resting over her nest. I think she knew I had taken two eggs, because she gave me an even more scary stink eye as I left.

Bye to you to, biatch.

Once I brought the eggs in, I learned my chores weren’t over yet. I still had to feed the dog, water the plants, sweep the porch, and help Talia in the kitchen.

Suddenly I know why there are no students beside Levi staying over during the summer. Hell, I bet even he didn’t want to stay.

“Just be glad you don’t have Levi’s chores, Eren,” Brian says, clapping me on the shoulder. I hiss at him. “he has to bring in the horses from the pasture, feed them, as well as the cattle, and check to see if any of them have stones in their feet or have any injuries.”

“I’d much rather take those chores any day, if it means not dealing with the chicken from hell.” I grumble. I stir the wet dog food in the dog bowl along with the dry food, twisting my face in disgust. “How the hell can anyone eat this?”

“Well, Bellia likes it, and be glad you don’t have to.” Brian grabs the sponge from the sink, pouring soap over it.

“Bellia?” I pause, my eyes widening.

“Yeah, that’s the name of the dog,” Brian says passively, preoccupied with his sponge. “I don’t know who named her that, because when I first came here she was already here. I think her owners’ away, though. Traveling to Japan, I think.”

“What?” I place the dog food bowl in front of an ever so patient Bellia, who globs it down like a glut.

“Yeah, her owners’ been here a while, for the past, oh, I don’t know fifty? Sixty years? I’m just guessing. She’s still a student, though.”

“That doesn’t give me much confidence in the school…” I say as I pull on my boots. A hand on my shoulder stops me.

“We aren’t a school, Eren,” Brian says. “And some people just take a long time to heal. It’s not their fault. Irwin and Armin are kind enough to offer their home to us, as well as time.” He sighs. “it’s kind of hard to explain. You’ll understand better if you stay.” And with that, he lets me go to finish my chores.

The rest of the morning passed uneventfully, unless you count me accidently spilling water on myself. I’m just not used to having so many people around me in the morning, and I’m not used to eating so much. Usually a cup of coffee and some toast is what I eat, so when I see the omelet, the sausages, the smiley face toast, the pancakes, and the glass of milk, my eyes were bulging out of my skull.

I’m full of regret when all I eat are a few bites of the sausage, all of the toast, and down the milk. Talia only smiles when I apologize and said, “We’ll change that during your stay, dear.” She patted my cheek and left.

I’m not given kitchen duty, but instead I’m given an even worse job- cleaning the house. From after breakfast until before lunch, I was to dust, sweep, mop, scrub,  and polish every single piece of furniture in the house. That included the windows, the beds, the toilets, the couches, etc.

Really starting to wonder if this is a school and not some penitentiary.

At lunch, I’m allowed an hour to myself. After that, it’s back to work, with helping ‘Lia in the garden, making repairs with Brian to the barn or the house, and then my worst nightmare.

Taking care of the horses.

Now, I’m not afraid of them. I love horses. I’ve loved them ever since I was young, maybe even before I started to like dogs. Horses were just a means of transportation back then, but to me, they were like best friends. My father owned 5 horses- two Friesians, one Arabian, and two horses from the local breeder. The first three horses he got from the sea traders, and they proved to be the best we ever had. Father let me keep one- she was a Friesian, and her name was Angan, which means good smell. And she really did smell good. She smelled like the mist in the morning, the hay of the stables, the mud of the earth, the water of the lake we sometimes visited as a family. She was my loyal companion, along with the dog I named Absolan.

She was the horse I rode into the village to. She was the horse I rode on the sandy beaches, the horse I rode in the water. She was the horse I rode to the cliffs, the black horse that seamen revered. She was the horse I rode when I married my wife. She was the horse my daughter rode. She was the horse who ran to my parents’ home when my wife died and I couldn’t see the road clearly in my grief. 

Angan was my best friend. She was sweet and even tempered, but don’t underestimate her- she was a trained war-horse. She crushed enemy skulls under her large hooves just as easily as she allowed my three year old to ride on her. She protected my family from wolves in the night, protected my wife when she got lost in the woods for a week. She was my best friend.

I buried her on the cliff over-looking the sea, a place she often went to in her old age.

Irwin, by some twisted fate, breed Friesians for a living. He owned a few other work horses on the side, but mostly he had Friesians. 3 mares, one stallion. The other stalls held a Oldenburg with a tobiano coat, a Clydesdale, a Cleveland bay and a Hackney. The Clydesdale, named Big Joe, was mostly used for holiday events or for farming. The Cleveland was for day-to-day riding, as well as the Hackney. The Hackney was also used for carriage driving, Armin explained.

I pat Big Joe on the nose. “Go on,” I say. Armin points to the Cleveland. “Her name’s Diana,” he points to the Hackney, “And his name is Curly.”

“The Friesian with the short hair is Hannah,” A new voice says behind us. I turn to take in Levi’s form leaning against the barn door before looking at who he was talking about. A Friesian with a baroque build tosses her head, as if knowing she’s being talked about. She probably did.

“The one with the star and trimmed hair is Farsha.” I step back so I can see further down the line. A mare with, indeed, a star on her forehead, and a baroque build as well pokes her head over her stall door. “The stallion over there is named Banner.”

I turn around to see a black Friesian stallion of an old classical build bobbing his thick head and kneck up and down. Beside him, Curly blows a raspberry, obviously not amused.

“What about the last one?” I ask, turning to Levi again. He was just about to walk out. He turns to look at me. “Last one?” he asks.

“Yeah, the one all the way down there,” I say, pointing. His eyes flick to where I point and back to me. “That’s…Diablo. She’s a special case.”

“Special case?”

“She…once almost killed a man who rode her, and her original owner abused her.” Armin explains in a quiet voice. “We keep her around mostly because Irwin wants her.”

I turn my gaze towards the last stall. The Friesian within moves around restlessly, and some sort of feeling swells within me. “Hey, Armin,” I turn toward him again. “Do you want to make a bet?”

He raises a blonde eyebrow. “A bet?”

I nod. “What are the stakes of this bet, if I agree?” he asks. “If I ride Diablo for more than 3 minutes and stay on, I’ll stay and you’ll give her to me to ride.” This is totally against what I want to do. Why am I say this?

“And if you fall?”

“Then I leave, once my car is fixed.” I offer my hand to him. “What do you say?”

 

.

 

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friesians are beautiful horse- don't let anyone tell you otherwise. Old classical builds mean a Friesian with a thick, heavy body, short sturdy legs, thick neck and heavy head. Mostly you'd see them as driving horses, although they're not so popular these days. they have larger hooves than the other builds.
> 
> Baroque build are the medium built Friesians, more common than the old classical. they have a rounder nose than the old classical, who have a roman nose. Baroque have short manes than the other two builds, less muscle so they appear even shorter- or maybe taller? I'm not sure.
> 
> Modern build is the kind you see everyday with Friesians. because the breed is so rare, this build is more common. sleek and slim-line, with a longer flowing mane that the old classical and the Baroque. taller, thinner legs, but still just as strong as the other build. keep in mind this breed is not meant for running long distances or built for jumping, so don't even try,
> 
> stars or white marks aren't usually considered desirable in Friesians, but I think they look pretty either way. there is the rare chestnut color, but black is the norm. color for coats in this breed.


	3. El Diablo Caballo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Eren gets a ride from the "Devil Horse" that isn't so devil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me not know Spainish, so me apologize. so sorry.

What the hell was I thinking?! What the fuck was going through my mind when I made that deal?

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Shit, I can’t do this.

And why did he even _agree_ to it?! Hello! You were supposed to shoot me down, not agree!

Fuck fuck fuck.

 

.

 

.

 

“So what do you say?” I say. My hand extends outward towards him. “Would you like to make this deal with me?” His blue eyes look at my hand, then back to me, before closing. He sighs.

“Three minutes, right?” His voice sounds completely exhausted. I hum my affirmation. He sighs again. “Alright, Eren,” he says, his tone a touch sour. “You have yourself a deal.”

_Shit._

I play it off, though, by smiling and saying. “Thanks, Armin.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” he warns. “I still have to tell Irwin, since he’s the owner of Diablo. But somehow, I think he’ll agree to this too.” He shakes his head. ”I must be getting crazy.”

“How old are you?” I ask, curious. Armin looks up at me and raises an eyebrow. “I turn ninety this October.” Ah, no wonder he looks so young. My eyes finally take in Armin fully, from head to toe; short, with chin length blonde hair and blue eyes, plus thin pale pink lips. He wore a long black blazer today, with dark colored jeans and brown ankle length boots.

“And you said you were…two hundred and fifty, right?” I nod, silently gulping around a sudden huge lump in my throat.

“Sure doesn’t act like it.” I hear a third voice mutter, and I turn to glare at Levi. While we were talking, he apparently got Diablo out of her stall and was currently attaching ropes connected to either side of the barn wall to her halter. “Hey!” I shout, forgetting the number one rule to barns; don’t ever shout. Shouting might spook a horse, and even if Friesians were on the list of horses least likely to spook, you never know what could happen. Friesians have a high pain tolerance, so if they had a cold or were in pain you’d never know until it was almost too late. Plus, they could be having a bad day, and loud noises could just piss them off.

These Friesians were apparently fine because when I shouted all they did was flick their ears in the direction of my voice, Diablo included. Big Joe only tossed his head in surprise, while Curly and Diana just blew a raspberry. Still, Levi threw a glare at me over his shoulder. “What do you want, brat?’ he growls. I gulp, trying to gather my nerves.

“S-Shouldn’t I be the one doing that?” I say, ignoring my stutter in the hopes that he would, too. “Grooming and tacking her up?” Levi blinks at me, straight faced, and I can’t help feel as though the idea surprised him. I scratch my cheek with my first finger nervously. “I-I mean, it’d help with getting accustomed to Diablo, right? I haven’t ridden a horse since the 20s…”

“What the hell?” Levi says, his usual monotone voice slightly shocked.  I feel as if that’s all I’ll ever get as a hint to his surprise.

“It’s not my fault! Around that time I used to live in the child welfare organizations, hopping from house to house, mostly on foster care. Almost all of the houses were in the city and…” I trail off, thinking there’s no way he’ll believe me. “I just haven’t ridden a horse in a while, okay?” I finish, looking up at him.

That was probably more of my choice. Having loyal companions like horses or dogs or cats hurt, because they died too early. I understand that humans have to withstand the same pains, too, but... not to be rude, but you guys don’t live that long. You don’t have to live for more than, I don’t know, 80? 90? years, now. You can’t even begin to understand the pain I’m suffering from. It feels as though Angan was just here yesterday, breathing in long, deep breaths beside me as she slept. Absolan didn’t even live half as longs she did.

Sometimes, in the morning, I almost expect to see her there, or any other horse or pet I owned. And each time I realized that they’re dead, have been for quite some time now, I tear up. I’d wish sometimes for some way to give them my immortality, give them some of the time that I despise and forget about so often. Some way to make them stay, so I don’t have as many regrets.

Pets come too early. They give you one look and suddenly they’re in your heart, in your soul. They love and treasure you, showing you their affection by licking or bumping or rubbing against you, showing you that you’re not alone, that you’re the world to someone. They become a part of you for so long that when they die, it’s too quick, too fast, and you wished you had more time, more time to say how much you loved them, how much they meant to you.

When they leave, a part of you does, too.

So lost in thought was I that I didn’t even notice Levi walking up to me until a box was handed to me. Looking at it, I see that it’s filled with grooming tools, and confused I look up slightly at Levi.

“Fine, brat. Have it your way.” Is all he says. But standing so close to him, I can read the emotion in his eyes. He knew. Or, he could guess why it’s been so long. And the familiarity in his gaze, similar to when Brian places a hand on my shoulder, conveying that he, too, thought the same way, once.

I nod and look down at the floor, brushing a straw with my shoes.

“I’ll be heading into the house now to talk to Irwin. I’m sure he’ll want to see this.” Armin says. “Come with me, Levi.” The black haired immortal nods, brushing our shoulders as he passes. A tingle runs through me, too fast for me to fully comprehend. But I feel it, and still I remain silent. The barn door is closed behind me with a _thud._ The room visibly darkens, but hanging light fixtures from above light the barn, as well as the small pieces of sunlight from the rafters.

I finally look up, sighing as Diablo makes a questioning grunt. “Hey, Diablo.” I greet with a smile. Her ears flick towards me again, trying to catch my low-toned voice. “I’m Eren, and today I’m going to ride you, if that is alright?” if she understands what I’m saying, she doesn’t make it known.

Friesians are incredibly smart horses. Don’t think for a second you have the upper-hand, or you’ve already lost. And I’m not saying that when you ride them or are around them it’s always a test of will, they’re always testing you. No, no. Friesians are just highly intelligent; they’re not the dumb beasts that cowboys claim horses are. They can think. They can understand. These tall beauties aren’t only that-if not for their loyalty and willingness to please, they’d probably be out of the pasture you’ve locked them in and running free. It’s what I love about them.

The fact that a horse like Diablo-who stands at, at least, one meter in height in comparison to me who is only one hundred and seventy centimeters tall(for you Americans out there that’s probably 6”1, 6”6 compared to 5”7)-listens and obeys something far below them. Literally. That’s just amazing, and I respect them for that.  

I tug my scarf so it loosens and approach Diablo, stretching out my hand for her to sniff. She breathes over it, hot breath sliding across my skin pleasurably. I remove my hand once she gets a good sniff and tosses her head.

Ducking under the lead ropes, I run my fingers over the creases and lines on her slim head. I run my hand over her cheek and down her neck in one long stroke. She sighs. Whether in pleasure or in exasperation, I’m not sure, but one thing I know is that Angan used to love when I did this, as well as any other Friesian I ran into over the years. I scratch at her withers friendly and she nickers softly in amusement.

I giggle when she tries to lean into my hand, signaling to scratch her withers again. She stamps the ground impatiently and I relent, scratching harder. She bobs her head up and down in pleasure and I laugh.

“Diablo, you’re so silly,” I say, and she responds by bobbing her head again, as if saying she knew it. I laugh again before moving on. I didn’t realize I was smiling widely until my cheeks started to hurt.

Angan used to bump me in the back affectionately, mostly doing it hard enough so I’d trip. I know it was just a Friesian thing, but Angan was doing it on purpose. I’d bump her back, and as if offended, she breath on my hair. Sometimes it was a snort, other times it was one long breath. It was how we ended our shoving matches between each other.

So when Diablo shoves me as I’m walking front of her, my reaction is the habit from back then- shove back. She pushes me again with her nose before breathing into my hair, snorting. And it was a slip of the tongue.

“ _Angan_ ,” I whine, trying to fix my red hair. “Really-” I stop short, realizing what I just said. I spin on my heel to look up at Diablo, whose eyes seem to sparkle with the stars from the night sky of 1021 A.D. France through her dark bangs. I blink at her, before smiling and placing my hand on either side of her face, resting my forehead on hers. I stroke her face as I silently weep.

I know better. I know that Diablo is not Angan. Angan had long since died, and this was an entirely different horse.

But for now, let me be. Let my fool myself into thinking this is Angan, that this is my only chance to tell her how much I loved her.

“Angan,” I whisper. Diablo nuzzles me.

That’s all that needed to be said.

 

.

 

.

 

It’s while I’m finally grooming Diablo that the door bangs open loudly. It almost makes me drop my brush, while Diablo jumps.

“What the hell are you thinking?!” Brian shouts as he stomps over to me. I return to combing Diablo’s hair, trying to remain calm for her. My fingers scratch lightly at her withers. “What was going through your mind when you said that?!”

“You want me to stay,” is all I say.

“Not like this!” he gestures to Diablo. I look at him, taking in his military buzz cut and blood-shot eyes. A section of his head is covered in short dark strands, while the rest is barely stubble on his head. “The last time someone rode her, he was an immortal, thinking he could tame her. And he almost got killed!” I tug my scarf tighter. “Is that what you want?” Brian shouts. “You’ve got a death wish?!”

I wait until his rant is finished and all he can do is breathe harshly. “Brian,” I say coolly, keeping my voice steady. “I suggest you cool off before you scare the horses.” Brian blinks, the anger receding from his face and being replaced by remorse.

“Sorry,” he says, his voice softer. Diablo finally releases muscles I didn’t even know she was tensing. I scratch her withers again as I look at Brian. “It’s just…I’m worried about you. First you come here looking like…like that,” he gestures to me, to my bright red hair, my blue contacts, my dark rimmed glasses and deep red scarf. “And not even 24 hours spent here and you want to ride probably the most dangerous horse here.” He shakes his head.

I flinch as I take in the worry lines on his face. Brian never had those, even when we were fighting in the civil war. The only few times he had them were when he was yelling at me for some stupid shit I did. Talia once explained, after a few times of me complaining about how controlling he was, that he cared for me a lot; saw me as the son they never had.

They once tried for a baby, she said.  But he died in childbirth. Grief-stricken, she yelled at Brain that she never wanted another baby, and he took that to heart. Even now, whenever she tries, he turns away from her, saying he’ll never hurt her like that again.

That baby had been a boy, she said.

I haven’t seen those lines in years, so seeing them again strike a chord within me. He looks so old; even though he was immortal, and he defiantly won’t be dying before I do, it scares me. I look down at the ground.

“Sorry.”

That’s all I can say.

A hand reaches over and draws me into a one arm hug. “It’s alright, Eren,” he says. I nod. He shakes my shoulder affectionately a few times. “Now,” he says, sniffing and pulling away. “I hear you made a deal and a man never takes his word back. You did a fine job in grooming her,” he runs a hand over Diablo’s coat, praising it, and me. “Let’s get her tacked up and ready to go.” I beam, then run to the tack shed to get her saddle and her bridle.

Brian ends up instructing me in how to saddle a horse, because I apparently forgot after so long. The time we spent in companionship makes me think of a memory from back in one of my high schools, during one of my games. The atmosphere warms me, Brian’s praise like little pieces of firewood being added to the fire to my pride.

 

.

 

.

 

It was during a half-time show, and it was raining really hard on all of us. I was surprised that the game hadn’t been canceled yet- but I guess that’s just how the ball rolls in football (pun intended). But it was when we were performing that I saw it, from my spot on the field.

A girl was sitting in the stands, with no umbrella or a jacket. Instead, she had a blanket over her body- or rather, half of one, since her mother was using the other half of it. Her mother was offered to share an umbrella with her neighbor, of which she took with a smile of gratitude and a thank you. The girl was watching beside her, her back to her father on the other side of her. The mother was trying to figure out how to get her daughter out of the rain and under the umbrella comfortably, when the girls’ father took off his hat and placed it on her head.

He pulled his jacket up further to cover his neck as he daughter turned to smile at him. She cuddled into him, failing miserably when she tried to cover his  legs with the blanket. But he wrapped his arm around her all the same, sharing the warmth. The mother smiled, and eventually, her neighbor gave her the umbrella, and she leaned over to hold it over her husband and her daughter, finally wrapping the blanket over her husband. They watched the rest of the game like that.

From way over on the field, playing my clarinet, I could feel their love, feel their warmth, and wished desperately for just a piece of it from my own family. A trace of love for the real me, the real Eren, and not the fake identity I had given myself.

 

.

 

.

 

 “Are you sure that’s alright?” Brian says beside me as I lead Diablo to the mounting steps. “You’re clothes?”

I look down, not even remembering what I threw on this morning. “I guess.” I was wearing a button up white dress shirt with a brow vest, dark jeans, and sneakers. “Not like I have anything else to wear.” I say.

Brian _tsks_ and shakes his head. “We’re going to have to go to the store soon and get you some new clothes.”

I stop in my tracks and look at him. “How are we going to get there if we don’t have a car?” Brian smiles and points at Diablo. “Irwin and Armin have a car in case of emergencies, but for trips to the town we use the horses. There’s a carriage in the shed over there,” He points to a small wooden structure beside  a large apple tree on the other side of the barn. “The students usually manage it, but since it’s just us, we switch on-and-off.”

“What is this?” I snort. “Eighteenth  century?” Brian smiles at my comment. “I know how you feel, Eren. I was like that too when I first came here.” I look at him. “Irwin likes a traditional farm. We have to work the land for our food, as well as work side by side with others to get what we want. It helps with the classes, too. Really enforces the idea of how everything connects to the earth.”

Brian laughs at my pout. “Aw, don’t give me that. And don’t act like you have done this before. It’s not like you’re a recent immortal with no understanding of farming. That would really suck then.”

“It’s not that,” I groan. “I’m thinking that I might have to clean the carriage tonight.”

“Actually, I was,” Brian corrects me. “But since you offered.” He teases, grinning. I thin my lips and shake my head at him. He rubs my head with his hand, messing up my hair.

“Alright, now give me the reins,” he says, holding out his hand. I pass them over, moving to stand on the steps while he maneuvers Diablo’s side to me. Officially, riders get on the left hand side always, but its’ not like we’re in an event where they dock you down just for that.

Once I’m up, Brian hands me the reins, checking to see if my stirrups lengths are correct. I look at my reins. From below and from looking back, it didn’t seem scary. But up here, at least a meter off the ground, it seemed like a really long fall. And Diablo’s hooves, if Angan’s were any to go by, were as big as a child skull. It’ll be a deadly blow to get hit by those. My lips begin to quiver.

A pat on Diablo’s neck gets my attention. “You’ll do fine, Eren.” I look at Brian as he speaks, looking into his reassuring eyes. “Trust me.” his cheek twitches when he says that, but other than that, his fear and worry is hidden well behind a mask of faith and assurance. I search his face one last time, before closing my eyes and sighing. Finding my resolve, I open them again and nod down to him.

He nods back. “Okay, now, walk her towards the corral.” I look up, about to ask which one, when I see everyone leaning against one of the iron gates of a corral to my left. Talia bites her lip, trying to hide her fear. I smile at her.

Okay, me. Time to show your stuff. I squeeze my legs into Diablo’s side, and she begins to sway. When she doesn’t move forward I squeeze harder, clucking like a mother hen at her. She sways again like a boat before I’m rewarded with a step in the direction I wanted. I cluck more, asking her to speed up. She bobs her head once before moving in a steady gait towards the corral.

The corrals here are made of  thin iron bars with wide gaps in between, probably not as safe as you think. But who am I to judge? I’m just a hostage to a thousand pound horse that almost killed someone.

My hands are physically shaking by the time we make it to the gate. Diablo strides in like it’s no body’s business. But I almost jump at the sound of the gate closing. I turn in my saddle to see Brian giving me thumbs up.

Taking in a deep breath, I turn and release it. “Okay, Diablo,” I murmur. “You won’t hurt me, will you?” she shakes her head. “Well, on purpose, anyway.” I pat her neck gently. I try to command my legs to move, but they don’t. I hiss. Frustrated and scared, I was willing to take my chances and slide off the seat. I’d kiss the ground, even if the horses had shit all over it. I actually  even get my foot out of the stirrups and tilt my body to the side in preparation.

But a hand pushes me back into the seat and shoves my foot in the stirrup. I feel the same hand grab the reins, its sibling coming to rest on my leg. A warm, gruff voice offends me from below. “Brat.”

I stare off into the distance, not caring. “Eren.” I look at him, realizing it’s the first time Levi’s said my name. My eyes drink in the sight of dark eyes and a pale face, dark bangs pushed back thanks to gravity. He was wearing the same gray long sleeve sweatshirt as yesterday. “Eren, relax. Breathe.” He commands me, and somehow my body listens to him because its fucked up. I take in a breath, my shoulders loosening.

“Your time starts when my hands let go of the reins, alright?”

I nod.

He gives me on last look before moving away. He tsks at Diablo, who follows, her head low. My eyes try to stay watching in between her ears, but the sight of Levi’s back enthralls me. As he walked Diablo around the corral, getting my used to the feel of a horse again, I familiarize myself with his back.

His shoulders were broad, fluid in their movements. There was no wasted motion. No accidental movement. Not like me. I make all kinds of mistakes; with my body or in my decisions. His back looked perfect, the kind I could dig my fingernails into-dammit. Stop that. But his back did look perfect for that.  The back of his head looked touchable, too, even if it was only a buzz cut. But it looked soft. I wanted to reach out a hand to touch it.

I raise one hand to loosen my scarf. Seriously. Buzz cuts? Pfft. Buzz cuts were not the shit. Buzz cuts were anything but the shit. So why was I so fixated on his? I didn’t know. But staring at his back (his back? Seriously, Eren?) was making me shift in my seat uncomfortably, some of my blood running from my frightened brain and pooling in an area I didn’t want it to pool in right now. Seriously, now is not the time, dick-

Suddenly I knew what Levi was doing. Besides getting me used to riding a horse, he was also relieving some of my fear in the most _annoying_ way. I bristle. And from the smirk I catch when he look back at me, I think he knows it, too. No, I _know_ he knows it. A vein appears on my forehead. You son of a-

His hand lets go of the reins, stepping away. Diablo carries on obediently. I’m left to take care of her while Levi climbs the bars, his gloating look further pissing me off. Totally over my fear, I tsk at Diablo and kick her sides gently, asking her to trot. She flicks her ears and obeys easily, jolting to a smooth even gait.

I think she senses that I want to get some frustration out, because soon enough she cantering around the corral, making my teeth clatter against each other. I turn her sharply in one direction, then the other, putting her through her paces. I learned from an early age that for problem horses you need to keep them moving. Keep them  doing something that challenges them so they don’ think of misbehaving.

She follows every order, from the slightest pull of the rein to the gentlest squeeze of my legs. When I pull her reins to stop she does, mid-canter. When I give her sides a firm kick she breaks into a fast trot, and when I squeeze again she canters. Her hot breaths and pants remind me she wasn’t Angan, who would’ve been running circles around Diablo. But she was close, close as you can get to a war-horse with just an average horse.

But Diablo wasn’t average; the paces I put her in were the once I used on any war-horse to warm them up. Diablo was the kind of horse you’d look for when you wanted to train one; willingness to serve, loyalty, strength, speed, and power. She wasn’t one of the hot-blood races like the Arabians, but she could keep up merely because of her strides.

I was so into testing her paces that I didn’t notice my time was up until Brian yelled at me. “Eren!” I jerk my eyes to him. ”You’re times been up for the past…” he looks at his watch. “17 minutes!”

Oh, shit. I pull Diablo to a stop, taking note of her wheezing hot breaths. Shit, shit. “Sorry, Diablo,” I apologize, patting her neck and scratching her withers. She bobs her head.

“Eren,” I turn to look at Irwin. “Levi will take over cooling her down. Come with me.”

“No offense, to you or Levi, sir,” I say, smiling sheepishly. “But I’d prefer to cool her off myself.” And take a shower.

Irwin gives me a look that tells me I have no choice, and I sigh. I dismount and almost fall completely to my legs because of how wobbly they are. Diablo head-butts me from my spot near the ground, wondering what I was doing down there. “I’m fine, girl,” I say, patting her head. “Just a little shaky.”

I rise and dust off my pants. Levi approaches and takes the reins from me. I’m almost sad at how eager Diablo follows, her paces matching the shorter man. I shake my head and head for the house, the small crowd around the corral dissipating.

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“Sir?” I ask. “Where are we?” where the hell has this man taken me? I thought we were going up to my room, judging by the amount of stairs we had to climb, but this small room with a square ceiling was nothing like mine. A circular window looked out into the farm, letting in the light of the afternoon sun.

There were boxes all over the room , pushed against the wall and each other to provide maximum space. The only real open space was beside the window, which was wear we were sitting. Sunlight shone in the space between us.

“This is the attic above the house,” Irwin explains. “The room you’re staying in is the attic above the dorms. We usually keep that for guests, but…” he trails off, leaving the sentence for me to finish. “I wanted to try something with you, Eren.”

If he was asking for me to join him and his mate in the bed room, then I’m out. “What is it?” is what I ask instead.

“I wanted to try mediation with you.” he says. “Have you ever done it?” I shake my head. He looks down. “Well, I must say I’m very surprised by your answer. But it’s fine. I’ll give you a brief explanation.

“Mediation, for mortals, is a means for relaxation. It takes the stress away by way of calming methods such as breathing exercises, music, and incense.  Of course, the same goes for those like us. However,” he reaches into his pocket, taking out a handkerchief. “Since we are in touch with our magical side, meditation isn’t only for relieving stress. When we meditate in groups, some can see others memories, hear others thoughts. The twelve sons could do that.” He pauses. “Have you heard of them?”

I nod.

“I’m impressed,” is all he says. “Now, I want you to hold this for me,” he passes me a key and I widen my eyes. “Ah, I see you recognize it. Talia had been neatening up your room and came across that. She gave it to, and I was going to give it back, but I wanted to test this out first.” What he had handed me was the broken half of a key. It was my fathers’, the last thing he was holding when he died. I don’t know where the other half went, and personally I didn’t care. I just wanted something to remember him by.

And strangely, the key has existed all these years without looking as though time had touched it. It never had a scratch, it never looked aged or worn. It gleamed and glowed in the afternoon sunlight, the trapezoid key ring(since it was the upper half of the key) reflecting. I wrap the leather string attached to it around my hand.  I look up at Irwin.

“Now,” he leans back. “I want you to close your eyes, and think of the place you want to be the most.”

That was easy. I close my eyes, picturing a loveseat and a T.V.

“Eren, be serious,” Irwin’s voice warns.

I snap my eyes open. “I was being serious! And how the hell are you reading my mind?!” Irwin raises a brow. I sigh irritably and close my eyes again. Place that I most want to be. Place that I most want to be…

My mind suddenly shows me the image of my home back in Russia. For a short while, I served as a bodyguard to the czar there, one of the many soldiers no one takes a second glance at.

Home in Russia was very similar to my first home. Harsh terrain, cold climate, little farmland. I had lived in the far north, close to the North Sea. It was beautiful and secluded; my house was as quiet as snow, as dark brown as the trees I had crafted it from. When the winter months came, I stayed at my home, watching the stars constantly, not worrying about little things like food or water or time. Until the sun rose again, I could stay for as long as I wanted.

I liked that.

“Try to picture the smells, the sounds, Eren.” Irwin’s voice called from far away. “Breathe…”

I breathed in, and suddenly I’m somewhere else. I smelled the warm loafs of bread in a bakery, felt the heat of the ovens, hear the hiss of dough being places on them. France. 1342. I was going under the bias of a young noble, then. I loved to get loafs of bread from the bakery down the street, because when I ate them, I could feel the bakers love for his craft. The soft chewy feeling, the lump going down my throat as I swallowed. The feel of the crust as I bit into the bread.

“Breathe…”

I was in Italy now, eating a Panini sided by side with Bellia.  She was laughing at a joke we said, he voice loud and sweet and beautiful. I could smell the river we were sitting by, smell the sandwich that I had loved most in Italy. I could hear people walking behind us, hear the murmurs, feel the stares we were getting and not caring. I could feel Bellia’s warmth, feel the breeze the ruffled our hair. It was so lovely to be with her…

“Breath…”

I was home, home, by the long house. By the sea, by the earth, by the cliffs, by the sky. And instead of feeling guilt, I felt bliss. Angan was nudging me forward towards the house. I could see my mother cooking over the fireplace from the door way, my father sharpening his blades. My brothers and sisters running and playing in the distance by the sea, making shapes in the sand and kicking them down. And I could see Halldis, holding Jofrid, cooing over her as the breeze brushed past them. Halldis looked up and over her shoulder, smiling and waving a greeting to me. I hesitantly raised my hand, waving back to her.

I could smell it. I could smell the sea, small the earth, smell Angan’s horse scent, smell the clouds in the sky above. I could smell Jofrid’s baby scent again, Halldis’s berry scent from when she went picking for berries in the ripe season. I could feel the warmth, the love. The memories…they weren’t hurting at all right now…

“Now I want you to come back…”

I didn’t want to. This was the first time I saw all of my family together and wasn’t filled with regret. But sweet things only last for so long. I say good-bye to the picture, watch it fade away into the darkness of my mind before blinking.

“Eren,” I turn when I realize Irwin’s not sitting in front  of me like I thought he was. Instead, he was behind me. “Look into the window.” He points to it. I obey, rising onto my hands and knees. It was dark outside, making me wonder how long we’ve been in this room. As I stare out the window, wondering what he wanted me to see, a light shines behind me. A figure appears in the window.

I shout and fall away from the window, landing on my back. “T-There’s someone in the window…” I say shakingly. Irwin nods. “Yes Eren, there is.” He hold out a hand to help me up.

Why was he so calm? Didn’t he know? Hasn’t he seen a horror move?

He lifts me up to my legs and walks around me to place his hands on my back. Towering over my shoulder, he says. “It’s you.” He slips my glasses off, holding up the light again.

In the reflection I see a boy, barely looking older than eighteen. His eyes are wide, and so, so blue. His brown hair falls like a mop on his head, and his hands are shaking at his side. He reaches to fidget with the scarf around his neck, looking nervous. “That’s…me?” I watch his-my-mouth move as I speak. “What happened to my hair?” I run my fingers through it. I had dyed my hair so often that I forgot what my hair used to look like.

“Magic, Eren.” I look up at Irwin. “What you were picturing were the places you most wanted to be, essentially picturing who you are. Your body sensed what was wrong and fixed it.”

“Fixed?” I say, turning back. The blue eyes thing was really starting to freak me out. I reach with my hand to take out my contacts. “Yes. That’s the power meditation has for immortals, depending on what you’re focusing on.” Irwin says. He turns and heads for the door.

“Now come,” I turn to look at him. “It’s time for dinner.”

 

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There was a time once when we immortals were racist assholes.

It was long before the time of humans; way back when Man was still trying to figure out how to make fire and lived in caves. That was when we ruled the earth.  Food, water, shelter- such things had very little meaning to us, since we don’t die so easily. Things like that were more like luxuries, just like jewels and cold stones seem more valuable than food.

I digress.

Back then, we were all assholes to humans. To us, humans were weak, pitiful; they were pets with meager lives in comparison to us. So, needless to say, rules were set in place, some of which I believe should exist today, if only to spare me from my guilt.

Before we were only allowed to have children with other immortals, so as to keep the blood line strong. Through this rule alone twelve houses emerged. Twelve houses filled to the brim with immortals related to each other. I think the better term is that twelve families rose and began to wage war on each other for land. Once again, I repeat, food and water meant little to us.

I’d day we set the example for the future of mankind, with all the battles we fought over and grudges we held. But the rules were different; World wars were mere child’s play in comparison to that time.  Magic was used as often as we breathed, and sacrifices of the highest multitude were paid.

Eventually, the twelve families trickled down- immortals fell to magicked blades or by the hands of another immortal, dying and taking their hatred with them. We aren’t like humans, where animosity, hatred and anger is passed from father to son and mother to daughter. Since we live longer, we have no need for that.

The twelve houses, in a matter of a millennia, went from large families to small ones, until only twelve immortal sons and their wives existed. It was those sons that crafted the new era of immortals- one where we aren’t allowed to harm one another, where we can have children with mortals. One where we are to hide our immortality, and exist in the shadows of humans, forever. But that’s was the second rule.

War is to be avoided at all costs between immortals.

That was the first rule they wrote.

 

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well. that was fun. :) sorry that there's not that much explaining going on, readers. I didn't think this story would get so many likes. But thank you for proving me wrong! I promise next chapter there will be some stuff going on between Levi and Eren! so stick around!

**Author's Note:**

> Please review!  
> Thank you for your reading *bows*


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